Morticai's Luck

by Darlene Bolesny

  Returning to the suspicious trunk, Morticai continued working around it, looking for a latch, a sliding panel, anything that would allow access to the area between the floor and the bottom of the trunk. The back foot did not seem secure. In fact, it was not quite as tall as the other three feet, and didn’t quite reach the ground.

  Morticai smiled again as he fidgeted with the loose foot. It swiveled. Once it had been swiveled out, he could feel a round plate of some sort.

  “You ready to eat, Turgal?”

  Morticai’s head snapped up. The question had been asked of the guard at the front of the tent. Morticai glanced to the rear of the tent; Nelerek’s shadow had vanished.

  “Aye!” a voice replied. “It’s been too hot t’ be standin’ withou’ any water, to boot!” he grumbled.

  “I’m surprised you didn’t bring any,” the first voice answered. “You know, Edris doesn’t mind—as long as it’s not brew.”

  “Aye, I’ll bring some tomorrow! Well, enjoy yer duty.”

  He heard the old guard walk away as the new one took his position. Morticai sighed with relief. Either the prince had given them orders not to look inside the tent or they were just plain sloppy.

  He turned back to the chest. With the foot swiveled out, he pressed on the plate it had exposed. With a soft pop, a panel on the front of the trunk edged outward to reveal a shallow drawer. Morticai smiled. If there were anything in Edris’s possession to implicate him with the Droken, it would probably be here.

  He took in a ragged breath at the sight of Droka’s token, wrought in gold and studded with gems. Morticai swallowed and glanced away from it. He hadn’t expected the sight to affect him so deeply. He noted that Nelerek’s shadow had returned to the back of the tent. He turned his attention back to the drawer and, trying to avoid looking at the token, he concentrated on examining the remaining contents.

  He found a map, marked with checkpoints and a dashed line, leading north. Morticai swallowed again. Prince Edris knew of the Droken army. Unfortunately, the army’s location and objectives were not marked on the map. Further search of the drawer found a ring of some sort—the symbol on it meant nothing to Morticai—and a pouch full of gems. He took the ring, and left the gems.

  This was it—the elusive proof.

  * * *

  “Fire! Fire!”

  Rylan stopped in mid-sentence. Only the cry of attack could have raised more panic in the tent-crowded camp.

  “Fire! Prince Edris’s tent is afire!”

  “What?” Prince Edris exclaimed, jumping to his feet.

  The king, his sons, and Rylan rushed outside. Not far from the king’s pavilion, flames shot skyward.

  “My tent!”

  Edris ran toward the flames, with the rest following. Two more tents had caught by the time they’d made the short distance; men rushed everywhere as bucket brigades were formed. Geradon came to a stop beside Rylan. Luckily some soldiers, quick about their duties, were already carrying trunks from the prince’s tent.

  “Blessed Levani!” Rylan whispered, blinking.

  “Indeed,” Geradon huffed, “what a disaster.”

  “No!” Rylan exclaimed. “Look, Geradon! Look at those two soldiers, the two wearing their helmets!”

  The two were carrying a small, but apparently heavy trunk from the tent. The shorter soldier looked up, scanning the crowd. Rylan saw the deep purple eyes through the helmet’s eye slits and swallowed.

  Geradon whispered, “Almighty Aluntas.” He’d also seen those eyes.

  Suddenly, the shorter soldier stumbled, and with a crash the trunk fell to the ground. As it fell, the front part of the trunk seemed to fall outward; on impact the contents of the drawer spilled out as the corner of the trunk split apart.

  Standing just a little in front of Rylan, King Almgren stiffened. Despite the flames and panic, gasps were heard from the crowd who witnessed the ‘accident.’ Rylan pushed his way to the front and scooped up the token of Droka. As he spun around to face King Almgren, he could see Morticai wink through the eye slits of his helm.

  “A token of Droka!” Rylan proclaimed loudly.

  Aghast, Prince Edris stood frozen.

  “And this is your tent, Prince Edris?” Rylan asked.

  “Y-yes, of course it is!” he stammered. “This is obviously some type of hoax!”

  “Indeed?” Rylan asked suspiciously. “You are certain that this …” he held up the token for all to see “… was not why you argued against me before your father?”

  King Almgren’s eyes narrowed. Geradon handed Rylan the rest of the contents of the drawer; Rylan glanced first at the map.

  “And is this,” he said as he held the map out to King Almgren, “not a map which lends truth to what I was telling your father?”

  “I know nothing about this!” Edris countered.

  Geradon handed Rylan something wrapped in a cloth. Rylan frowned and unwrapped it to reveal a broken ivory carving of a dancer. “What’s this?” he muttered.

  “The trunk is full of them,” Geradon said.

  “What!” King Almgren cried. “You brought your ivory?”

  Prince Edris suddenly backed up a step, but said nothing.

  “Halt!” Rylan ordered. Having already maneuvered around the prince, the knights of the Faith stepped up to Edris, surrounding him. The flames from the three tents had been extinguished, and except for the pop of still smoldering tent poles, a silence had settled on the crowd. Rylan leveled a steady gaze at King Almgren.

  “Your majesty,” Rylan said quietly, “I fear that I must request that your son be surrendered into the custody of the Faith.”

  The king swept his gaze slowly over to his son.

  “Father,” Edris said quietly.

  Narrowing his eyes, the king turned back to Rylan. He heaved a deep sigh.

  “So be it,” the king said, solemnly. “Come back to my pavilion, Inquisitor.”

  Rylan bowed his head, respectfully, and complied.

  * * *

  Lord Hildric shifted his weight uneasily. Word of the arrest of Prince Edris had spread like wildfire through the Watchaven camp. As far as he had heard, Edris wasn’t talking—not yet. If things went well here, it wouldn’t matter. If not, he might have to make certain that Edris would never be able to talk.

  The room in which he stood had been Mid-Keep’s great hall. Now, even though it had been cleaned for the kings’ meeting, it stank of burnt timbers, the walls were pitted, and the floors were an unnatural, ash-tinged grey. Despite the lack of a roof, the structure’s walls had remained sound.

  The meeting would soon start. Hildric glanced at Jendall, who stood beside him. Jendall appeared calm and prepared.

  Hildric repressed a smile. Soon, Jendall, he thought, we shall see if you are prepared to watch your king die. He glanced over at their counterparts on the opposite side of the room. He recognized Lord Danvek, but he did not know the corryn who stood beside him. From the last message he’d received from Danvek, however, the corryn with Danvek was supposed to be an ally.

  King Riamel entered the hall with one personal guard. The king was tall, even for a corryn; he had a powerful build that many thought the result of sorcery. His deep-red hair was woven into an elaborate braid that hung down his back. The guard beside him carried a Dynolvan standard. He thumped it on the ground, twice.

  On that cue, King Almgren and his personal guard entered the hall from the opposite side. Moving at the same, calculated speed, both kings approached the small table that had been moved into the ruined Keep for the meeting. The small table looked out of place, sitting in the middle of the huge room, where the great table had once stood.

  The guards placed their respective standards in stands brought in for the occasion and moved into position behind their kings. Once seated, Danvek and his aide moved to stand a few feet f
rom their king; Hildric and Jendall did likewise. All proceeded as had been agreed upon. Riamel would start the negotiations.

  Suddenly, Almgren broke with the plan, and spoke first, “King Riamel, I know that we agreed that you would begin the negotiations, but something has been brought to my attention which is of the utmost importance to both of us.”

  King Riamel tilted his head, thoughtfully. “Continue, King Almgren,” he replied.

  “Thank you. Earlier today I held audience with a representative of the Faith—an Inquisitor, to be exact—who had been sent to me from Watchaven with an urgent message.”

  Hildric stiffened, and noted that Danvek had, as well. Hildric glanced at Jendall, but he appeared not to have noticed. King Almgren continued.

  “At first, I will admit, I thought him mad, but certain facts have come to light since then which prove his words true. With your permission, I would have him address us.”

  “Of course,” King Riamel replied. “Proceed.”

  Hildric blinked and gazed intently at Danvek, trying to catch his attention, but the doors behind them were already opening. With someone already entering the room, they would have little chance of successfully completing the double assassination. They would have to wait for a later opportunity.

  The party that entered came into view, and moved to stand where both kings could see them. Hildric inhaled deeply, wondering if he should try to flee. Fighting back panic, he remained, standing motionless.

  Four men—Hildric had seen the Inquisitor before—at the palace, in fact—but Hildric had heard nothing about his present mission. Beside the Inquisitor stood a sorcerer of the Faith—a rare thing, indeed, what with the Faith’s view of sorcery in general. The sorcerer wore the full vestments of the Inquisition, along with a sash denoting his rank in the Order of White Sorcery.

  Beside the sorcerer stood a knight of the Faith. The man was human, but quite tall and incredibly muscular. He had entered the hall with a huge sword strapped to his back—Hildric was shocked that neither king protested this. Beside the knight stood … a guard? Hildric was not certain. The man wore a Watchaven helm and chain armor, and judging by his height, must be human. His scabbard was empty, so the fact that the huge knight alone carried a sword must have been intentional.

  “Most gracious kings,” the Inquisitor began, bowing respectfully, “my name is Rylan. Several months ago, the Inquisition in Abbadyr received rumors of a Droken infiltration into Watchaven society. I was sent to investigate and, with the help of my associates,” he gestured to his party, “I was able to expose the Droken presence. More than that, we found evidence of a Droken plot to involve Watchaven and Dynolva in a war.”

  “This evidence was discovered by a Northmarcher, who has suffered greatly for his work, and who, I might add, has recently had a miracle performed upon him. I have brought him with me and would have him tell you what he discovered ere he was captured by the Droken. Had it not been for his capture, we might have been able to provide this information sooner.”

  The Inquisitor gestured to the man in the Watchaven uniform. Hildric furrowed his brow. He knew of only one person who had been captured, and when he had last seen that person, he had been half dead, blind, and obviously quite insane.

  The man removed the helmet. Beside him, Lord Jendall gasped. Hildric swallowed, and moved his hands behind his back to hide their visible trembling. It was, indeed, the person he had seen undergoing the ritual in the temple, but he now looked upon them through unnaturally deep-violet eyes. The corryn nodded first to the kings, and then to Lord Jendall.

  Hildric looked at Jendall, wondering what possible connection there could be between the two men. Jendall returned the corryn’s nod. Even King Almgren had noticed this, and he glanced curiously at Jendall.

  Approaching his liege, Jendall said softly, “Once upon a time, we were at odds over the same woman, your majesty.”

  The king smiled, and nodded knowingly.

  Hildric glanced at Danvek, hoping that the terror in his heart did not show in his eyes. Danvek’s expression was troubled and gave him no comfort.

  The Inquisitor introduced the corryn. “Your majesties, this corryn of the Northmarch was named Moranekor at birth, but is now known as Morticai.”

  “Your majesties,” Morticai began, a slight tremor in his voice, “before I was captured, I learned that several nobles on Watchaven’s Trade Council were involved in this plot, but I did not know what they were trying to do. I suspected,” he said, with a quick glance at Danvek, “that Dynolvans were also involved.”

  Danvek paled visibly.

  “It became apparent,” Morticai continued, “that the goal of the plot was to drive Watchaven and Dynolva to war, which would be a terrible blow in itself. However, before my capture I found a map that detailed the movement of an army, a Droken army, which at this time lies somewhere to the north of us, and which is probably already engaged in a battle with the Northmarch. I believe their plan was to bring our two kingdoms to war and then to crush the survivors of both kingdoms.”

  Riamel looked at King Almgren and raised his eyebrows. “You believe this?” he asked, incredulously.

  “I do,” King Almgren replied evenly. “I did not, at first, but that was before I discovered that my fourth son was also involved in this plot.”

  Riamel signed himself and bowed his head. “I offer my regrets,” he said. “But where could such an army come from? There are no kingdoms beyond ours.”

  King Almgren looked at the Northmarcher.

  “I am not certain where their army is coming from,” Morticai admitted. “There was a place marked on the map which appeared to be its origin, but it was far outside our boundaries. I have heard tales that a kingdom of Droken existed, but before this I had always discounted it.”

  The Inquisitor interrupted. “Your Majesties, at this time, where the army comes from does not matter. What is important now is that you make peace so this army does not come upon us unprepared.”

  The kings looked at each other suspiciously. A corryn guard stepped cautiously into the doorway far behind Danvek and tapped his spear against the stone floor. Furrowing his brow, Riamel turned and looked over his shoulder.

  “Your majesty,” the corryn said, bowing deeply, “Northmarch scouts have arrived and say they must speak with the kings. They insist that it is crucial.”

  Morticai smiled broadly.

  King Riamel looked back at King Almgren. Almgren shrugged.

  “You might as well send them in,” Riamel said. “Nothing else is going as planned,” he muttered.

  Two dust-covered Northmarchers, a human and a corryn, entered the hall. The corryn scout caught sight of Morticai and stopped mid-way to the table. He moved forward again only after the human returned to him and tugged at his sleeve. He traded a solemn nod of recognition with the violet-eyed Northmarcher.

  “Your majesties,” the human scout began, “we have come to report that a Droken army of approximately sixty thousand men lies three days to the north of us.”

  “By the Levani!” King Almgren exclaimed.

  “Sixty thousand!” King Riamel echoed.

  The corryn scout laid a letter in the middle of the table. “We have brought a letter from Lord Seabrook,” he said.

  The kings stood and both moved toward the letter. With a nod from King Riamel, Almgren opened it. Leaning over the table together, they read it silently. King Riamel looked up at the Inquisitor.

  “Forgive my doubt, Inquisitor,” he said. “It seems that you were quite correct, and I can only assume that if the army exists, then so does the plot of which you speak.”

  “We have much to do,” King Almgren replied. “Lord Jendall, stay here with me. Lord Hildric, go tell Prince Bertel that we will be breaking camp.”

  “Aye,” King Riamel agreed. “Lord Danvek, give the word to our own camp that we shall be m
oving.”

  “Y-your Majesty?” Morticai interrupted.

  “Yes?”

  Danvek was moving toward the door. The corryn scout moved quickly to stand in front of him. Danvek stopped.

  “I am sorry to say,” Morticai continued, “that when I followed Lord Danvek in Watchaven one night, he met with one of the Watchaven nobles whom I later learned was the high priest of Droka. You might wish to reconsider whether you wish him to give such an order to your troops.”

  The king straightened. “Indeed.”

  The knight moved up to stand beside Danvek.

  “Well, Hildric,” Almgren snapped, “get moving!”

  “Yes, sire,” Hildric answered, and quickly headed toward the door. With a sigh of relief, he exited without being stopped. Apparently, the violet-eyed corryn didn’t know of his involvement. He would give Almgren’s order—and then, he must go north.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “Your Highness, Lord Hildric is here to see you,” the guard announced.

  Luthekar’s head snapped up. He tossed aside the list of remaining supplies and came around the small table he was using as a desk. “Lord Hildric?”

  “Yes, Your Highness.”

  “Bring him in immediately,” Luthekar said, attempting to quell the anger he’d heard in his voice. He clasped his hands behind his back and waited. An annoying tightness built inside him—if Hildric had come to him here, now, something had gone very wrong with his plan. It could only mean that Hildric had been exposed.

  As the fair-haired human spy the Droken had planted in Watchaven’s court several years previously walked into the tent, Luthekar noted the travel dust that coated his clothing. The nobleman reeled from exhaustion, and he stank of sweat—his horse’s and his own—and of fear. He’d obviously ridden fast down a hard road, no doubt fleeing from those who’d discovered his true allegiance. Luthekar’s eyes narrowed, and he suspected they’d shifted into the blood-red hue that seemed to bother people so. He did not voice the question that was in his mind, and as he’d expected, it wasn’t necessary.